


Rumpelstiltskin

by brightly_lit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Metafiction, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:05:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightly_lit/pseuds/brightly_lit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, life is like a fairy tale, at least for the Winchesters--not the happy cartoon movie versions, but the grim original ones, where happy endings are all too rare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumpelstiltskin

“He’s sweet. Kind. Even after the war, after everything, he still believes in happily ever after.”  
-Mary, of John Winchester, “In the Beginning”

 

Dean cracked open his new favorite book in the backseat, and Sam pressed closer and closer into his side to see the pictures, so close he was practically sitting on Dean’s lap. “Rumpelstiltskin,” Dean read the title aloud with gusto.

John had bought them a book of illustrated fairy tales at a garage sale for a dime. It would be good for Dean, he thought, because fairy tales were cautionary tales, teaching stories to bring the wayward back in line. It would be doubly good for Sam for the same reasons. He looked in the rearview mirror at Sam’s entranced face, dead silent, staring deep into the pictures as if he lived inside them, as if he wanted to, as if he knew his life was a story meant to fill thousands of pages.

But, well, buying the book was a mistake, just like every good, well-intentioned thing John did turned into, as if the powers that be were determined to twist every choice he made since Mary died into something sick and wrong. Coming to a fork in the road, he picked the bright path and still ended up in the evil forest full of monsters and death and danger at every turn, every single time.

He used to think it was just him, that he was the world’s crappiest father, but he knew enough now to know there was something else at work, something powerful enough to take the bright paths and alter the earth itself beneath them to make them wind up somewhere else: the place all roads Winchester were inexorably headed. Dean, sweet Dean, his firstborn, dutiful son who at four greeted his father’s arrival home every night with a running hug, now a budding thug in worn jeans and a holey jean jacket, at this very moment wrestling with Sam over the book, claiming he “couldn’t see to read” unless Sam got his hands off the thing. Dean managed to be jealous of every person and every possession in his life. And Sam, wide-eyed, dark-haired child, once upon a time just a normal baby like any other, now tracing his fingers enchantedly over the gilded image of the villain in their very favorite story.

 

The stars were bright as he took the diamond ring and proffered it to the fair-haired beauty he would make his wife, because she was the only one who could spin his straw into gold, or so he believed. She would soothe the horrors of his memories of the war. She would fill the hole his departed father left in his life. She would redeem it through his children, because steady Mary, who wanted nothing more than to be a good wife and mother, would never leave her children as his father had, no explanation, no closure, as if he fell down a rabbit hole one day and decided to stay in Wonderland. Wherever his father went, it must have been better than whatever mundane life his unworthy son could have offered. But Mary would make it all better, Mary with her whimsical charms tinkling on her wrist.

Then something happened. Her wicked father interrupted his proposal, or--or step-father, maybe, because she hardly seemed to know him. He came demanding something--

“Your first-born child,” said Dean in the backseat, and Sam and Dean both grinned, squirming with anticipation.

\--unless she could guess his name, or his game, or something. It had never made any sense, Mary crying, her father suddenly dead with no murder weapon in sight, John like a damsel in distress laid across her lap, stroking his face and begging him to take her away to his castle, swearing there they could live happily ever after.

 

John had spent years searching for a name. Missouri had only been able to prophesy what would happen, and thus to guess what kind of wicked creature had managed to manifest itself in their house to collect what it had been promised ... for Missouri said that was the only way it would have access: a deal. “The red tape drives them crazy,” she said.

Mary must have made a deal. John could guess what night it must have happened, and he could guess what form it must have taken, too: the green-eyed stranger who had lost time and didn’t make any sense except when it came to this car. He’d been possessed by this yellow-eyed demon, off and on, most likely. Why hadn’t John killed him when he had the chance? He wouldn’t have been John’s first kill; he had two confirmed kills in the war. They still haunted him, knowing they were just two young men fighting for their country, same as him; but if he’d been able to kill the green-eyed man and put a stop to all this ... he could have lived with that.

What would drive Mary to make a deal, John had never been able to guess. It wasn’t an attempt to save her father or mother, because Missouri said demons had to uphold their end of the bargain, and her parents were gone. But he knew what she’d paid.

 

John picked up some KFC when they got into town, found a cheap hotel, and got the boys inside, salting the windows and the door with Dean’s help. Dean loved this part, taking on the duty so seriously, attending to it with an uncharacteristic precision. John never had to fill in the gaps anymore. “It keeps the monsters away,” John would explain. It helped them feel safe when they slept, which was good, because at night after they were asleep was when he was able to get his real work done.

He broke into the town library to examine local records, looking for the signs he’d learned to associate with the demon, trying to uncover a pattern so he might, someday, be able to anticipate where it would go next and be there when it arrived. He felt bad about the breaking and entering, but Sam and Dean, only three and seven, couldn’t entertain themselves quietly at the library long enough for John to get anything accomplished in the daytime, and half the time anyone poking into these kinds of specific local records encountered suspicion, resistance, or incompetence. Sam would be a grown man by the time John found out what he needed to know if he tried to do this through normal channels. He rationalized his criminal behavior by telling himself he might save lives someday with the knowledge he uncovered, but this ex-military father of two still had to take a couple of deep breaths to quell his guilt before he jimmied a lock, every time.

John had written down his findings in his journal and put everything back exactly the way he found it when he turned around and started with a gasp, to see another figure there. He began to try to explain himself, why he’d broken into the library, when he saw something that made his stomach drop, something he’d seen only once before: glowing yellow eyes. “You!” was all he managed. It had all come to seem like a dream, the terrible events of the night Mary died, and the night ten years before when her parents died--a dream, or a fairy tale, the way they were originally: nightmarish and horrifying and devoid of happy endings. Maybe that was all this was, but even if it was, it had suddenly become John’s reality.

He fumbled for something he could use as a weapon, but there was nothing but books on every side, and what kind of weapon were they? Well, they were the only weapon John had yet been able to find against this demon. He threw a book at it, but he knew that wasn’t the right way to use books against this monster.

His fumbling ended as he flew through the air and hit the wall behind him, hard, and he fought to get air back into his lungs, realizing with bewilderment that he’d vastly underestimated this creature’s power, despite assuming it was more powerful than any man.

“John,” said the demon gustily, pacing lazily among the shelves. “Long time no see. I almost forgot about you. Ooh, but I see you haven’t forgotten about me,” it said, examining without great interest the dates and places John had painstakingly compiled in his journal. John was seized with terror that the demon would destroy all his work of all these years and he’d have to begin again, but after looking over the list nostalgically and sighing over a couple of names, it tossed it aside. “So why are you so obsessed with little old me? Oh, right! I killed Mary. A spitfire, that one. I liked her. Pity she didn’t listen to me or her son and barged in on me anyway.” It shook its head with a chuckle.

John blinked. Spitfire? Mary? In her billowy white nightgown, shouting for her husband? What was it talking about, ‘her son’? Had this demon had some kind of interaction with Dean that night? Or had little Dean had some kind of intuition and warned Mary?

“You’re still bitter, I can see,” it said indulgently. “But what’s done is done. You can’t stop it. You can’t stop anything. You should buy a house so you can give your boys a decent life. Go back to your family, make sure Sam gets his milk and vegetables so he grows up nice and strong, and be glad you still have one son left when I come to collect what’s mine.”

“Rumpelstiltskin!” John shouted suddenly.

The demon blinked at him. “Huh?” Then it started to laugh. It laughed until it howled. “What on Earth?!”

“Golden eyes,” John gritted. “First-born child.”

“But Sam’s the second-born,” it noted. “First-borns are for the other guys,” it said, briefly rolling its eyes heavenward. “Remember that whole business with blood on the doorframe or the first-born sons would die? They didn’t even use them for anything; they just killed them! What a waste.” It shook its head. “Ah, Rumpelstiltskin!” it went on reminiscently. “He was a good soldier. Little weird, though, I’m not gonna lie. His strange obsession did him in in the end. You didn’t really think-- John,” it said disapprovingly. “You haven’t really gotten it into your head that you’re going to be able to defeat me, have you? That you’ll be able to figure out my name so you can use some kind of spell to render me powerless?” John fought against his invisible bonds without success. The demon came closer to examine him with new interest. “Another unexpected spitfire, just like your wife. Now my hopes for little Sam are even higher. I chose him well,” it said self-indulgently. “And I saved the right guy,” it added, nodding to John.

“What?” John snapped.

“You, John,” the demon said with gusto, peering in his eyes, anticipating his reaction. “You know why she made the deal, right? She did it for you. She gave me your unborn son in exchange for your life.”

John had been preparing to deprive it of the satisfaction of seeing his reaction, but he couldn’t hide this, staring at it for long moments with abject horror. “No,” he moaned at last. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Only ... only Sam hadn’t been born yet. She wouldn’t have known what she was giving up.

“It’s a good deal,” said the demon with a shrug. “Two for the price of one. It was keep you and that other kid or have no one at all. But Rumpelstiltskin! I love it! I can’t wait to tell the guys downstairs; we’ll be laughing for centuries.” It chuckled with delight. “All right, John, I’ll make you a deal: If you can figure out my name before I come to collect Sam, I’ll call the whole thing off, how’s that?”

“No deals!” John shouted. “I’ve got a deal for you: When I figure out your name, I’ll trap you and kill you and all this will be over!”

The demon’s eyes flared, yellow again. It stepped closer, and then John started to bleed, profusely, he didn’t know how, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “Poor little orphan Sam and Dean. They’ll remember fondly the father who abandoned them all the time to do research in the library. Such a great man, such a voracious reader! Dying on the floor of one of his beloved libraries, helplessly bleeding to death on the floor because he didn’t have the good sense to let it go. You’re nothing, John--nothing! You can’t touch me.”

“Then why are you killing me?” John gasped, knees weak, held up on his feet now only by the demon’s power.

Suddenly he was released, and he fell to the floor, feeling frantically at his chest, where the mysterious bleeding had just as mysteriously stopped. “May as well let you be my nanny until he’s of age,” it noted dismissively, but its voice still held a sharp edge of anger. “Kids are such a pain to raise. I’ll let you do the hard part. Forget about Sam, John,” it said dangerously. “Someday, he’ll be just like me. Worse,” it said with an anticipatory grin. “Enjoy the shreds of your pathetic little family while you can, or I will kill you and Dean when I come for him.”

“Screw you,” John grunted, fighting to stay conscious.

“’Rumpelstiltskin’!” it cried again with a laugh before it disappeared.

 

John managed to remember to collect his journal before leaving the library in a shambles, books and blood everywhere, not bothering to relock the door as he left, racing home to make sure his sons were okay, but they had to be, they had to, because of the salt. Something had to have the power to protect them, since if he’d learned nothing else tonight, it was that he himself couldn’t. He had to step up his game a hundredfold, a thousandfold. He’d have to rethink everything he thought he’d ever known. He’d have to figure out how to kill the unkillable.

Dean woke up as he came in. Dean took the hotel room key out of the door, since John with his shaking hands couldn’t manage it. Dean handed him the key, staring up at him huge-eyed, eyes raking bewildered over John’s bloody jacket. Seeing his son’s beloved face, he crushed him in a hug. Then, when he could no longer stand, he sat on the rickety chair and pulled Dean onto his lap, clutching him tightly to him, rocking him, trying to hide that he was crying. Dean didn’t say anything, just renewing his grip on his father’s jacket every now and then as he hugged him back as tightly as his little arms could manage.

Dean--steady, reliable Dean--would always be there by his side. Dean was the one he would always have, even if he couldn’t save Sam. Even if Mary could give up one child for another, even if some demon thought that made sense, it was a choice John could never, never make. Jealous, protective Dean, who loved his family like John did--Dean would help him save Sam. Together, they would fight this impossible battle, or die trying.

“Son,” he whispered, and he could feel Dean’s quivering attentiveness to the words his father was finally uttering after all this dreamlike horror. John was still half-convinced it had all been a dream, but even if it was, it was the dream that finally told him the truth. “Son, from now on, no matter what you do, no matter what happens, you’ve got to look after your brother ....”

~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> \- I LOVED LOVED LOVED 's wishlist for her fic. (This was written for her as a pinch hit for the j2 xmas exchange.) We have a lot in common in terms of interests and likes/dislikes; I used basically your whole list of likes for inspiration! I especially love archetypes and how they relate to this wonderfully archetypal show, so I really wanted to delve into that aspect of it. I'd realized how fairy-tale-like the whole second-born son theme was, so this was a wonderful opportunity to really weave SPN into a fairy tale milieu and pull out some of those threads for close examination. Then, once I saw you're also a fan of a flawed-but-decent John (one of my very favorite characters to write), my ideas started to coalesce.
> 
> \- I write a lot of John with the wee!chesters. I probably have a meta coming on the subject of John as a father, and writing fic helps me figure out where his head was. For a while, I've been toying with an idea of his motivations (that I intended to get to in this fic, but it never ended up going that direction), but I ended up writing here about the precursor to that, which is that I feel like his getting from family man to ruthless hunter must have been a gradual process. I loved the idea of John as still very naive about monsters and demons, still closer to the good, law-abiding man he once was than to the drunken criminal and highly competent monster-killer he eventually became. I was excited about writing a story about him at a major turning point in that process, which tied into the way he felt driven to parent his children. I believe John would never have put the kind of pressure on Dean he ended up putting on him unless he believed he had no other option, and of course I loved telling the story of the beginning of that terrible and eminently Winchester dynamic, of Dean having to look after his brother, that's so much at the heart of the whole series.
> 
> \- I soon realized ep 4.03, "In the Beginning," had to be my primary source for the facts surrounding the events of this fic, because I had to be clear on what John knew and had seen when Mary made the deal. Upon rewatching it, I found it ended up echoing and reflecting what I intended to write even more than I hoped, especially in lines like the one I gave at the beginning of this fic. A lot of the ep has a (dark) fairy-tale feel about it.
> 
> \- I don't actually remember the episodes that well unless I've just watched them (as with 4.03 for this fic), and I thought everyone's memories had been erased so Dean's warnings wouldn't be remembered (as happens in another episode), but no, John DOES remember meeting his future son, so it was fun using future-Dean as a red herring in this fic for John's guesses. 
> 
> \- I enjoyed giving a little shout-out to John as having being a Man of Letters in his blood (like Sam) without even realizing it, turning to books for the answers before he turned to hunting.
> 
> \- And oh, poor Dean. :-(


End file.
